


Puzzle

by SkinSlave



Category: Hellraiser (Movies), Marilyn Manson (Band)
Genre: Anda/No/Wtf, Blood and Gore, Blood and Violence, Consensual Violence, F/M, Gore, Pain, Sex, Sexual Violence, Violent Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-20
Updated: 2019-11-20
Packaged: 2021-02-16 08:01:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21504529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkinSlave/pseuds/SkinSlave
Summary: The Lament Configuration is used to summon a cenobite for decidedly personal reasons.TW: consensual mutilation, wound penetration, blood, explicit imagery, feelings-ish.
Relationships: Female Cenobite/Marilyn Manson
Comments: 7
Kudos: 9





	Puzzle

It's a myth that the puzzle can't be solved, can't be controlled. There are many solutions. The downfall, and elevation, of all seekers is the fact that they do not know the question to which they give their answers.

Long fingers tipped in black nails traced the seams of the Lament Configuration. They moved slowly but with purpose, like warming up a lover. Perhaps that's exactly what she was. He knew her. He could've closed his eyes and moved her from memory. But he wanted to watch. The box twisted, opened, and clicked into place, right where he wanted her.

The box returned the favor, sending an electric pulse up his tattooed arms. A blue glow cleared the air for the soft clanking of chains. Heavy boots approached the simple wooden chair where he sat, then stopped.

"Have you missed me?" he asked, leaning back. "I've missed you."

She stepped around him, pale in the low light. Her blue lips opened just slightly. Below them was the mouth she'd been given, held open invitingly. Further still, her sickly white skin peeked in strips and patches from the tight black leather she wore.

"Manson," she rasped. "Why have you called me?"

He grinned, rows of white teeth surrounded by red paint. The mismatched eyes she'd complimented a lifetime ago floated in blue shadow. He was handsome then, beautiful now. His power throbbed.

"I wanted to see you. Isn't that enough?" He sat forward and rubbed at her lips. "My fallen one. You're as perfect as the day I made you. Have the others treated you well?"

She nodded hesitantly.

"I see. Not as well as I did."

He gripped her arms and pulled her into his lap. His hands, covered in heavy rings, roamed over her chest and down her stomach. Chains, threaded through her skin above her hip bones, held tools of her trade. He pulled one until he could slip a finger in beside it.

She moaned. Her legs opened wider, inviting him in. Manson smirked. The flesh remembers. There was nothing under her skirt that resembled her human form. Just keloids and stitches. But it didn't matter. She would accept him, one way or another.

She dragged her fingertips over his face. He was warm. He offered his tongue and she took it. The wire that pierced her cheeks felt like a blade inside her mouth. He let her cut him. Blood ran between them. It lubricated the kiss, sweet and exotic.

"This skin is new," he said. "How would you teach it?"

She smiled a bit and let her hands fall into his lap. It had been ages since she'd felt a hard cock. Human men were always so finicky. Delicate. Weak. Their arousal was simple but somehow out of reach. She squeezed it through his slacks. It was fascinating.

He nudged her and she stood. Slowly, he worked the buttons on his black dress shirt. He was tattooed underneath, a beginner's lesson in pain and reward. He folded his clothes neatly.

She knelt and took his length in one hand. She gave a shallow, open-mouthed kiss on the head. It awakened an urge - a memory? Looking up at him, she slid his cock over the wound in her throat. It painted the tip with more blood. If Manson had eyebrows, they would've lifted in intrigue.

Encouraged, she slowly pulled the spike from her nose and began to make room for him. She sliced into her trachea and worked the wound wider with her fingers. Biting his lip, Manson slipped inside.

Her throat was tight and ridged. He rocked his hips, pushing upward, and hummed his appreciation. She struggled to breathe around him. Wet bubbling sounds accompanied every thrust as he fucked her throat.

She gripped his thighs, leaned back and opened her mouth wide. Manson could just see the head of his cock at the back of her mouth, bobbing in a pool of thick, bloody saliva. He splayed one hand on her smooth head and pushed. The edges of the wound dug into his groin. Her eyes fluttered closed.

With a cartilaginous crack, her throat gave way. Manson's cock came into her mouth far enough for her tongue to reach. She lapped at it. He bit back a groan. Her body trembled as she coughed, spraying blood from her wound. The moisture and friction were sweet in a pitifully _human_ way. He felt the first stirrings of an orgasm.

Purring luxuriantly, Manson slid his cock out of her throat. Her front glistened with blood. Carefully, she pinned her trachea closed so that she could speak again. Her voice was even lower and more husky than it had been before.

"Let me teach that skin."

She reached for his soft stomach with one hand, the other cupping his lower back. Her fingertips dug into the pink flesh. Trickles of red followed his curves. His cry of pain was like honey.

"Shhhhhhhhh," she hissed, twisting her fingers. "Let me earn your voice."

She reached further and further. Lumps began to chase one another under Manson's skin. He could feel them seperate the layers of fascia. His torso burned. They burrowed deeper, dancing through his organs.

She withdrew her fingers and stood, stroking his undulating ribs. His lower lip trembled. A sweat had broken under his jet black hair. She caught a droplet with her tongue, then pulled him into a kiss.

Manson's body went rigid. The nodules burst through his skin, thin metal hooks that curled upward. His tattoos were ruined. He didn't seem to mind, wrapped in the pain of it, the cooling blood. The sounds he made were almost euphoric. She brushed the sharp points as she held him closer.

"Thorns to a rose."

His breath slowed. He adjusted his stance and something firm bumped her front. She allowed herself a hint of a smile. He was still hard.

" _My_ rose," he said, touching her shoulders. "Made of _my_ design… of _my_ desire…"

He thumbed at her cheek fondly. He could barely remember her human form. She had been quality material, but now… now she was so much more. He pulled at her split skirt, slid his hand up her thigh.

"So much more," he muttered.

She let him move her until she was seated on the chair. His gaze was intense. He held it as he slid to the floor between her knees. He lifted one calf and pressed his lips to it. A sticky smudge of lipstick and flaking blood remained.

Manson's kisses were sensual. He took his time, tasting her leg. He reached her thigh. Raised scars swirled around it. He traced them with his tongue. Her skirt moved higher.

There, between her thighs, was some of his best work. Her human failings had been shredded and burned closed as soon as she'd arrived in hell. Later, he had peeled it open and rearranged its pieces. Now she had a rose of keloids, stitched together with steel cabling and accented with hooks.

He couldn't resist a taste. The flower was cool under his tongue and was sweet and metallic. It reminded him of home. His teeth clicked against the hooks.

"Open me."

Her enthusiasm made him smile. But Manson couldn't bring himself to alter the sculpture. He was too proud.

Instead, he leaned her back in the chair. He chose a sickle hanging from her hip. Slowly, he used the blade on her chest, just below and to the right of her sternum. She whimpered. The steel retraced the cut again and again, nicking the cartilage and diaphragm, and leaving a feathery wound.

Manson stood over her, straddling the chair, and teased the gap with his cock. He could feel the torn skin licking his own. Slowly, he leaned forward. His cock pushed against the sponge of her liver, wedged between it and her ribcage.

The sounds she made were intoxicating, gasping moans. Human women gave them so cheaply, at the hint of a tongue or a simple thrust. They mattered when she gave them. Her voice echoed in the dim room.

He tore into her chest, tissue digging into his cock and snapping apart. He drew back and fucked into her, angling toward her heart, going deeper with each stroke. Her left lung collapsed, making more room and stealing her breath.

Finally he felt it - the slick, hot muscle that allowed her to bleed. It throbbed against Manson's cock, pressing it into the texture of her ribs. She reached for him, driving the hooks in his stomach into her hands. Her mouth moved, but no words came out. He knew her well enough to understand.

_Fuck me._

He took her by the shoulders and gave her what she wanted. Each roll of Manson's hips made her heart skip wildly. It massaged his cock and sent waves of pain and dizziness through her body. She pulled at him. The thorns tore from his stomach and stayed embedded in her hands. Their blood mixed once again and dripped into her lap, along with the thick mucous that had padded her guts.

The slick pleasure of her body brought Manson to the edge. She knew instinctively, still a woman, and begged for it in her way. She fumbled at her hip until she found a serrated knife. Her hands found his ass and pulled him in, sinking the tip into that soft pad.

Manson plunged into her body and stilled. His cock jerked, spreading his cum through her organs. The hot flood tightened the space even more, pressing an urgent whine from his lips. She mirrored his energy, enjoying the fullness and the delightful pain.

When he was able, Manson stumbled backward. A flood of bloody cum bubbled from her wound. She gathered a bit on her fingers and tasted it. It was bittersweet, like him.

"Will you come back with me?" she rasped.

"I can't. Not until Leviathan calls me. Not until you collect another soul worthy of joining the priesthood. And that hasn't happened in decades." Manson seemed almost sad. "Humans just don't desire like they used to. They… lack depth."

"Is that what you're doing here? Giving them depth?"

"Perhaps, in some small way."

She took his hand. His fingers were rough from guitar strings, painted and decorated. She didn't want to let go. Some fleck of humanity at her center cried out. It wanted his pleasure, his pain, his nearness.

Leviathan's call vibrated through her body. She would not be permitted to stay any longer. She stood reluctantly, dripping onto the hardwood. With stern obedience, she followed the blue light into the portal that had delivered her. He thought he saw her glance back as it closed.

Manson stood, naked and bleeding. He held the box in one hand. The other felt the pits and holes in his stomach and chest. Some still held steel hooks, pieces of her. He could feed and heal, but the man in him didn't want to let her go.

Somehow, he knew she was the answer. But to what question, he could not know.

  
  



End file.
